by Clea Simon
“Hi Amy, Theda again. Is Rachel in?” The combination of that questionable receipt and my need to make an appointment for Musetta gave this call priority. “No? Well, do you know if she got my message?”
“Sorry, Theda. I put it in her box.” Amy sounded harried. I knew better than to push her.
“Of course, thanks. But while I have you here, have you found me an appointment time yet?”
“That’s right. Sorry.” I heard pages turning. The shelter kept its calendar the old-fashioned way: on paper. “It’s been crazy. One of our regular volunteers quit with no notice. We’ve got a new aide starting. Plus, kitten season has kicked in in earnest, and we’re trying to do as many of the combo distemper shots, the FVRCPs, as we can before all the new animals come in. More and more, people are saying they don’t want ’em.”
“The kittens?”
“The shots.” Behind her, another phone was ringing. “They hear about vaccine-site sarcomas and they think the shots are going to be worse than the disease. They should come in here when we get an outbreak. Wait, looks like, let’s see. Fifth of May? That’s a Saturday, first free appointment, nine a.m.?”
Saturdays at nine I would prefer to be asleep. But this was my cat we were talking about, and, besides, once the annual spring flood of new litters started coming in, Rachel’s days would be more than full. “Sure, I’ll take it.” I flipped my own calendar forward a page. “May, wow.” Hard to believe that real spring—the kind with flowers and warm weather—was just around the corner.
The busy receptionist misunderstood my surprise. “If I get an opening earlier, I’ll let you know.” I knew she meant “sooner,” but who needs to be the grammar police? I winced.
“That would be great. Good luck with the vaccinations, Amy, and thanks.”
I’d barely hung up before my own phone rang again. But if I was hoping for fast news of an opening in Rachel’s schedule, I was disappointed. It was Tim, my editor, sounding breathless as usual.
“Krakow? Good. When you come in, I need you to bring a resumé and some of your non-music clips. At least the dates, we can pull them up here.”
When I come in? Tim knew that I filed via email, and that he already had my column for this week. “Tim? Did we have an appointment?”
“Yes! The staff job! Your interview. Didn’t I tell you?” Well, no, but I wasn’t surprised.
“You had to run off to the budget meeting, Tim. You said you’d call me with details.” My editor might have been as overworked as Amy, but he was certainly less organized. And less sympathetic.
“Well, I’m calling you now. The head office wants to act on it right away, and they’re meeting with candidates this afternoon.”
Candidates? Plural? “Tim, you didn’t even tell me what the job is. I mean, I don’t even know if I want it.”
“Arts reporter. You remember reporting, don’t you?” He was trying for humor. “You were keen enough on it last January when you did that big drugs story.”
“That was club related.” It had been, and I also had never meant to get that involved. “And, Tim, I’d have to think about taking a staff job. I mean, I’d have to give up a lot of freedom.”
His guffaw made me start. “What a joker you are, Krakow! That’s why you’re my top stringer. Three o’clock today. And wear something that makes you look like a grownup.”
Great, I was competing with people I didn’t know for a job I wasn’t sure I wanted. But maybe I could find out more about the position itself.
“Bunny?” This time my friend picked up on the first ring.
“Theda! I’m so glad you called. You got those clips, right? So, do you have any thoughts on the pet psychic?”
I’d forgotten entirely about her odd request. “Sorry, Bunny, you’re going to have to tell me more. A pet psychic—not a psychic pet, right? Like one of those ‘dog whisperers’?”
“Sort of. I was reading about one who helps find lost pets and resolve squabbles, like when you get a new kitten?” I murmured what must have sounded like assent, because she kept on talking. “So I was thinking. Pangur Ban and Astarte have been like my babies for so long, but soon they’re going to be replaced. I mean, not replaced, but unseated.”
I had to break in. “You’re not thinking of getting rid of your cats, are you? I mean, I know you’ve been having Cal deal with the litter, but all those old wives’ tales about cats hurting babies—”
“Theda!” This time, she cut me off. “Who do you think I am? My kitties are more than my pets. They’re my familiars!” Usually, I take Bunny’s Wiccan beliefs with a grain of salt, but this time I felt relief. “They help me commune with my feline side.”
“I’m glad. I know you love them. But you’ve never had any problems communicating with them yourself. So why are you asking about cat whisperers?”
“Well, it’s just that there’s going to be a lot of change going on. And I want them to understand it—and know that even if I’m too busy for pets and all, that I still love them. And there’s this one pet psychic, she does all her work by phone and she only charges eighty dollars for a session.”
“Bunny!” For a smart woman, one who worked at a newspaper no less, my friend could be gullible. “Are you hearing yourself? Save your money. Better you should spend it on a nice dinner for you and Cal. First you talk about cooking for your cats and now this. You can make your cats understand. And I promise, if they start to feel neglected, I’ll come over and play with them.” Musetta wouldn’t be crazy about that, but it beat babysitting.
I heard a sigh commensurate with my dear friend’s weight. “You will? I guess I’ve just been worried.”
“Bunny, is everything going okay? I mean, otherwise?” I knew she didn’t like to talk about problems—thinking bad thoughts gave them power—but I was a believer in getting things out in the open. “Is there anything up with the baby? Is Cal good?”
“Yeah.” I heard something in her voice, and waited. “Oh, I don’t know.” She wasn’t going to spill.
“Bunny, tell you what. I’ve got to come down to the Mail this afternoon anyway. Can I grab you for a coffee—I mean, a juice—break? Maybe around two?”
“That would be great, Theda.” Her voice dropped half an octave with relief. “What are you coming in for—that arts job?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I’d find out more soon enough. “In fact, I was hoping you could give me the scuttlebutt.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up.” If anyone could, Bunny would, and the idea of a project had put some life back into her voice. “See you soon!”
***
That left me with a couple of hours to kill and too unsettled to do much with them. Another run would clear my head. But so, I realized, would food. Even if Bill had to dash off, there was no reason why I couldn’t head down to the Mug Shot. If I needed to, I could switch to decaf, but the fresh air and a lemon-poppyseed muffin might help me sort out my options.
A walk might also help me stretch out those muscles. As soon as I started down the stairs of my second-floor apartment, my calves started crying out in pain. It had been a brutal winter, and I’d been lazy too long. Maybe it was just as well Bill had taken off; he’d gotten positively religious about his fitness regimen, once his various casts and crutches were gone. I was limping as badly as he’d been back in February when I hit the street.
The kinks were nearly gone ten minutes later, when the Mug Shot came into view. City living had its drawbacks—my rising rent was only the latest reminder—but as long as I could walk to a coffeehouse, a club, and a bookstore within fifteen minutes, a city girl I’d remain.
“Decaf latté, and one of those.” I pointed to the top-heavy golden muffins behind the counter. The tattooed barista, the latest successor to Violet’s old job, wiped down the counter in front of me and went to fill my order.
“Hey, Theda!” I looked up and saw Piers a few stools down. He grabbed his mug and slid down with a big smile. “Off to work?”
&nb
sp; “Sort of.” His grin turned quizzical, so I gave him the thumbnail. He knew I wrote, but the whole freelance-staff writer disconnect was new to him. “And now they say there’s some kind of job I might be right for,” I concluded. “But I don’t know what I’d have to give up—or what exactly I’d get.”
“I get you.” He shook his shaggy head. “One of the reasons I’m a contractor is because of the freedom.” That explained the muscles. I wondered if he and Caro knew each other. “I mean, I’ve got the Last Stand gig now, for some steadiness. But that’s just part time. My drummer, he’s working for his dad’s business. Does the same work, really, and earns a lot more. But he’s got someone looking over his shoulder.”
“Whereas you can while away the morning at a coffeehouse.” I smiled to soften what could sound like criticism. After all, I was here, too.
“Actually, I’m heading out now.” Maybe I had misspoken. “Doing some volunteer work at the shelter.”
“Violet’s?” How much had I missed?
“No,” he shook his head as he stood up. “The city shelter. I’m fitting the back room with shelves. Used to be a stockroom for supplies and stuff. We’ve already insulated it and it’s almost ready for cages.”
I couldn’t imagine him in the uniform scrubs, not that he wouldn’t look dandy. Maybe carpenters were exempt. “Just in time for kitten season, huh?”
“Yeah.” He grabbed his coat and looked up at me. “The more animals they can take care of, the better.”
The alternative, we both knew, was not pretty. “Well, good for you. I should give them some of my time, while I have it.” I thought of Rachel. Maybe I could drop by after my meeting at the Mail. “Do you know Dr. Weingarten?”
“Rachel, yeah. She’s the reason I’m giving it away.” His grin turned on the wattage then, his blue eyes crinkling up in pleasure, and I realized that whether the strait-laced vet knew it or not, she’d made a conquest of another long-haired creature.
***
Whatever his motivation, if Piers could build shelves for the city shelter, I could do a little more paperwork for Violet. Getting my refill to go, I picked up the last tangy sweet crumbs with my fingertip and trotted, a little more easily, back home.
“Oof!” I’d only been gone about forty minutes, total, but that was too long for Musetta, who jumped into my lap with a thud. “Hang on, kitty.” Heaving my hefty cat temporarily up in the air, I was able to reach the pile of papers. She took the disruption in stride, kneading me as I settled back to read and sip the swiftly cooling latté.
With a little effort, I was able to make out more of the shelter receipt. The signature was long gone, but the typed name on the bottom looked like Weingarten. And I was more confident than the day before that the body of the letter referred to sixty dollars’ worth of kibble. But why would Rachel have made a donation to Violet’s shelter? She did enough by making house calls. And dry food lasted, well, not indefinitely, but long enough so that the city shelter might have wanted to keep these bags on hand. Besides, since when did Rachel’s staff have money to spend on a heavily advertised national brand? I tried to picture the back room of the shelter, where food and litter were stacked. Had I seen the bright red and blue KittyLuv logo there? Somehow, I couldn’t conjure up an image of the bag, with its heart-shaped cat’s face, on any of the shelves.
It was all too confusing, and in desperation I found myself looking back through the few older receipts I’d taken. Here was one for a twenty-pound sack of prescription cat food. Someone else had donated an almost-full case of Science Diet; a local bookstore had raised money for a flat of generic low-ash food. But these contributions made sense: someone had lost a pet and didn’t want food to go to waste. Or a group had raised money to buy something Violet’s shelter needed. Which was, to be honest, just about everything. But why would Rachel be giving away ordinary cat food? Didn’t the city shelter need it?
I didn’t feel any closer to understanding what was going on. If Rachel hadn’t called me back by the time I got done with the Mail, I needed to head over there and get some answers.
Chapter Seven
Musetta hadn’t wanted me to go. As soon as I got up from the sofa, she knew, and spent the next half hour twining around my ankles. Doing her best to convince me that she’d pine away without me, she was more persuasive than she had a right to be. How many other cats had a person who spent most of the day at home? Still, I enjoyed the attention while I browsed through my closet, looking for something interview-worthy.
Black, black, denim, and leather: my wardrobe had only become more rock and roll over the past few years. By the time I hit forty, would I have any colors left in my closet at all? I pushed a hanger aside; my vintage CBGB T-shirt was more of a keepsake than a garment, worn thin and faded. What about the cowboy shirt with the mother-of-pearl buttons, a souvenir from that road trip to Austin? Three days in a van with the Road Workers, and I was ready to jump ship. But the music festival had been astounding: scrawny LA punks jamming with Tejano vaqueros, music everywhere. I remembered wandering into a boot store, thinking I’d try on a pair, when I’d heard the band in the back room, something between rock and soul, with a garage rocker from Boston sitting in on keyboards. I’d gotten a wonderful piece out of it, as much about the surprise camaraderie as the music. I’d bought this shirt that day, and boots, too.
I pulled the shirt from the closet. Not too wrinkled, and the embroidery on the front gave it a more feminine look than my usual. With black jeans and a jacket, yes, it would work.
I left the apartment with a renewed sense of optimism. Maybe this would be a good thing. Commitment. A job, a steady paycheck. The memories of that Austin trip prompted thoughts of paid vacations. Even, maybe, travel assignments. There was a festival in New Orleans every April I had my eye on.
***
As soon as I saw Bunny, that dream burst. I’d called her extension as I walked up to the main entrance and in hushed tones she’d told me to meet her in the cafeteria, over by the private dining room in the alcove we used to call “lover’s lane.”
“What’s wrong? Are you worried about people seeing us?” I was half joking as I settled in, sipping at my fruit smoothie, but she was looking around surreptitiously, her cat’s-eye glasses glinting.
“Not seeing. Hearing.” Bunny had gotten in good with the women who ran the message center, and I knew that meant she caught more gossip than anyone back in the newsroom. “There is a posting. It’s pretty vague, as usual. Reporter, level 1, full time, for the Living/Arts department. Not an arts writer. Living/Arts.”
We both mulled that one over. As a music writer, I fell solidly into the “arts” category, and a reviewing job, like the one Ralph had, would have been classified as a “specialist,” at least one pay grade higher than a reporter. Tim was in charge of both departments, and the boundary could be pretty flexible. Still, he’d warned me that the job wouldn’t be straight music writing. “Living,” after all, was what we used to call features: lifestyle stories and fashion. On the copy desk, we’d used to joke that when we reached a certain age, they’d rename the department “Dying.” But Bunny didn’t look like she was in the mood for a chuckle. She leaned closer in. “And that guy Cash is here today, and he’s holding meetings with all the departments. It’s gotta be connected.”
“Cash?” I’d have remembered that name if I’d heard it before.
“He is, believe it or not, the money guy.” Bunny wasn’t smiling. “But he’s from New York. There’s something going on with the new owners.” I knew what she meant. We all called the News Corporation of North America, NewsCo for short, the “new owners,” even though they’d bought the paper close to four years earlier. So far, they’d been noticeable only in their absence, which had suited most of us just fine. “Mandating massive budget cuts, is what I hear. And not that far down the line.”
“So he’s behind the latest round of buyouts?”
She nodded. “I hear that’s only the beginning. Over
time and some of the health benefits are next. The pension. You got out of here just in time.”
“But Tim called me in about a job. So now they want me back?” It didn’t make sense. “Am I replacing someone?” I thought of Ralph, who pulled in a good salary, and all the extras, doing not much more than I did for “Clubland.” “Someone more expensive?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “I’ve seen a couple of new faces around, and they all look pretty young.” I pushed the remainder of my smoothie away. Discipline, that was key. “It’s got to be a money thing. I mean, no offense.” She raised her hand. I smiled.
“None taken.” Bunny’s support for me and my writing was never in doubt. And, besides, the way the bean counters thought, she was right. If I was being considered for a job, there had to be a budgetary reason. “I mean, I’m cheaper as a freelancer. So what’s up?”
“I wish I knew. All I can figure is they want someone who can cover a variety of beats. Maybe they want copy they can use at a couple of their papers?”
I thought that one over. I wouldn’t mind being read in more cities, though it would be nice to be paid more for it. But I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable taking someone else’s job. Maybe I was one of the “younger” faces. Or the job meant writing fashion. I looked down at my getup, which now looked more Dale Evans than Austin hipster. Well, too late now to do anything about it. And the sight of my friend, large as a house, but still decked out in a purple sweater with spangles down the front—glitter that matched the sparkle on her glasses—made me smile. The Mail was hardly fashion central.
“So, what’s up with you?” It would be good for me to get out of my own head for a while.
“I don’t know, Theda.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a Ziploc of carrot sticks. “Maybe it’s just nerves. Waiting, wondering how our lives are going to change.”